


Kiss it Better

by smudged_ink_writing



Category: Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe - Benjamin Alire Sáenz
Genre: Adoption, Family, Family Fluff, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, POV Aristotle Mendoza, POV Dante Quintana, Sick Character, Years Later, oh and Dante's nonbinary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:55:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25697656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smudged_ink_writing/pseuds/smudged_ink_writing
Summary: Throwing yourself off a cliff, vomit's rather unpleasant, and Please Don't Swear In Front Of The Kids. Grandparents are superheroes. Shit gets messy sometimes, and Ari won't call Aunt Gina.In other words, Ari, Dante, and the kids have a rough day.
Relationships: Aristotle Mendoza/Dante Quintana
Comments: 2
Kudos: 30





	Kiss it Better

**Author's Note:**

> It was only a matter of time before I wrote this. It was inevitable.  
> I'm supposed to be writing something else right now, but. I did this instead. Oops. 
> 
> Now, Dante's nonbinary in this one. The kids call them dad, but they're nonbinary. 
> 
> I've been a childcare worker for four years and worked with kids since I was a preteen, so I've been through some stuff. There are things you cannot unsee or unknow. Children are horrible and amazing and terrible and my favorite people.
> 
> Anyway, here's my kid fic, because I'm a sucker for them and I simply couldn't not.  
> Enjoy!
> 
> CW: Vomit, Homophobic Slur

DANTE

The window is open as far as it can go, and the thin strands of sunlight streaming in from between the branches of a tree warm the room comfortably. It’s quiet; about as quiet as it’s been in our house in the past eight years. Miraculously, I’m the only one awake. 

I’m standing in front of my canvas, palette in hand, putting the finishing touches on my anniversary gift for Ari. Family portraits are tough to get on camera, and not much easier to get on a canvas, I’m learning. For now, instead of worrying about the shadow in the back corner, I soak in the silence. I rest the hand holding my brush on my chin, the paint on the end nearly smearing my cheek, but not quite. Everything is so bl-

“DANTE!” 

I jump and my brush wipes a glob of cobalt blue up the side of my face. “Goddamn,” I mumble, and wipe my hands before bounding down the stairs. 

Ari’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding our four-year-old at arm’s length and cringing so hard his eyebrows are nearly touching. “Wh-” I start. 

Oh. 

There’s vomit all over the floor. Ari looks like he’s wishing for the sweet release of death. 

Gabriel, on the other hand, is bouncing in his papa’s grip and giggling. 

“Good morning, sweet boy,” I say, taking Gabe from Ari and trying to remain as calm as one can while surrounded by the end result of a projectile-vomiting session. 

“Daddy,” Gabe giggles. I smile at him. “I throwed up.” 

“I see that.”

“Papa doesn’t like it.” 

I snort. “No, he doesn’t.”

“Papa yelled.” 

“He did?” 

“Yeah. He yelled, and then he said a naughty word.” 

“Did he, now?” I raise my eyebrows and look over at my husband. 

“Sorry,” he grumbles, standing there miserably and visibly unsure of what to do. 

“Well, mister,” I say to Gabe, “Let’s get you in the bathtub.” 

“Why?” 

“You’re all messy from throwing up,” I explain, switching gears into gotta-take-care-of-this-shit mode. “Ari, I can’t call in today because I have too many classes and, like, three meetings. You stay home with Gabe, I’ll drive Nora and Teresa to school. Clean this up and get the pediatrician on the line, please, Angel.” 

He grunts in response. I glance at the counter where he’d been standing. He’d been filling the coffee pot when he yelled for me in terror. 

I set Gabe on the floor and he toddles towards the bathroom. 

“Hey,” I whisper, leaning over and taking Ari’s face between my hands. “We’re gonna be okay.” 

He nods and takes a deep breath. 

“I love you.” 

“I love you,” he whispers back. 

I lean in for a kiss. 

“Eww,” Nora says, striding into the kitchen and swinging open the fridge door. I pull away without a kiss and pout a little. 

“Good morning to you, too,” Ari says to her, trying his best not to sound awake. “Careful of the puke.” 

“Got it.” She puts a muffin and something I can’t see but am too distracted to worry about the nutrition value of on a plate, then makes her way up the stairs. Teresa is hopping down at the same time, and the collision is so narrowly missed, I think that God must be real. 

“Papa!” Teresa shrieks. She runs into Ari’s arms. 

“Morning, princess,” he grins. He lifts her up and spins her around, then sets her down on a kitchen chair for breakfast and pokes her belly. She giggles, high and clear, and the sound sprinkles glitter all over our kitchen (metaphorically. I think Ari might actually throw himself off a cliff if it was for real). 

“Daddy,” she sings, turning to me. “Guess what?” 

I bend down a little to look her in the eyes. “What?” 

“I lost a tooth!”

“Really?” I say. She’s seven. Is that normal? We should call the dentist. 

Oh, right. Dentist. Doctor. Sick. There’s vomit on the floor and a toddler in the bathroom. 

“That’s great sweetheart. Your papa’s gonna get you breakfast and then clean up this mess. Then he’s gonna call the doctor for your brother,” I tell her, looking at Ari the whole time.

I kiss her on the nose and rush out of the kitchen before I have to answer any questions. 

“Daddy,” Gabriel yells from the bathroom while I’m on the stairs. “I don’t feel good.” 

“I know,  _ amor _ . We’ll get you cleaned up, and then-” 

“Dad?” Nora shouts from the other side of her closed bedroom door. I try not to groan. 

“Yes, Nora?” 

“Where’s my eyeliner?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“You used it yesterday.” 

“Oh, that’s right. I put it back.” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“Daddy,” Gabe moans. 

“I’m kind of busy right now,” I yell to Nora. “We can go to the drugstore later, okay?” 

“Fine. Don’t forget,” Nora admonishes. 

“I’ll try not to.” 

Gabe retches in the bathroom. 

Thirty minutes later, it’s time to go. 

The troops are lined up for inspection in the kitchen. Typically, it’s a neat row of them and their smiling faces. Today, we’re all just doing our best.

Nora’s first, and she looks fine. Grumpy about not having her eyeliner, but fine. I kiss her forehead in my stamp of approval. She rolls her eyes. I’m really not a fan of this whole cool-teenager thing. 

Then there’s Teresa, who’s wearing a ruffled dress in an assaulting shade of bright pink that makes me blink a few times. She has yogurt on her face (I lick my finger to wipe it off), her shoes are on the wrong feet for some unknown reason (I tap her toes and she plops over to fix them), and her hair is in a snarled pile atop her head (I wrangle it into a messy ponytail while she’s distracted with the shoes). 

Once she’s all fixed, I kiss her on the forehead and move on. 

Gabriel is missing this morning. He’s in bed, thank the universe, and his spot remains empty. 

Ari’s next. He’s disheveled and about two-thirds of the way dressed in sweatpants and an unbuttoned flannel with no undershirt, his shoulder-length hair almost as messy as Teresa’s was a few moments ago. The lack of sleep is about as evident as it could possibly be, with the bags under his eyes and the way he’s rubbing his temple. He’s on the phone with the pediatrician’s office.

Suddenly, he pulls his phone away from his ear. I hear faint notes of hold music. He lets out a string of curse words in Spanish. 

“Papa, you know I speak Spanish, right?” Nora says. 

“Yeah, well.” He makes a swiping motion at the air like he’s brushing away her comment. 

“No swearing in front of the kids,” I scold. I kiss him on the forehead. 

“Yeah, well,” he says again. 

“Did you ever get your coffee?” 

“No.” 

I chuckle. “I’ll be home by five at the latest. If you can’t pick them up from school, call Gina.” 

“No way in Hell am I calling Gina.” 

“I like Aunt Gina,” Teresa protests. “Aunt Susie, too.” 

“Yeah,” Nora adds. 

“Yeah, well,” Ari says. It’s like he’s forgotten other words at this point. 

I get the girls in the car and off to school. By the time I get to the university, I’m running to my first class. 

Five minutes later than I should’ve been, I swing into the lecture room and open my laptop’s Art History folder. I roll out my shoulders and offer an apology, citing a sick son and a tired partner before pulling up my powerpoint and rolling up my sleeves. 

Hours later, I’m feeling sapped of energy from dry meetings and long classes. Wednesdays are my busy day, and of course it’s a Wednesday that ends up being the craziest day I’ve had this semester. I wonder, faintly, if Gabe had to go to the doctor’s office.

When I get out of my car, I find that I can’t remember the drive. 

“Daddy!” 

“Hi, princess,” I sigh, scooping Teresa into a hug. 

“Hey, dad,” Nora says. 

“Hi, Nora. How was school, you two?” 

“It was fun! I read a book all by myself,” Teresa says proudly. 

“That’s amazing!” 

“Some kid said called you a faggot again,” Nora says. 

I sober immediately. “Honey, you can’t let that get to you-” 

“I know, I know. I told him you’re a weirdo and a lunatic, but only I’m allowed to insult you.” 

“You know, that’s true,” I say, mock-seriously. 

“Right. He was just some kid, I guess, so he left me alone.” 

“Good. You know, when that happens, you can-” 

“Dad, we’ve had this conversation, like, fifteen times.” 

“Okay, okay. How’s papa?”

“He’s fine,” Teresa says. 

“Good, good. Did you tell him about the faggot thing?” 

“No.”

“Oh… Oh. Okay.” 

Teresa pulls on my pinky finger and I follow her into the kitchen. 

Ari’s sitting there, holding Gabe and looking half-asleep. Gabe’s sniffling like he’d been crying a minute ago, and Ari looks close to tears himself. 

Gabe perks up and bounds towards me as I walk through the kitchen door. 

“Hi, baby,” I say, patting his head as he hugs my knees. 

“Papa’s sad.” 

“No, he’s not, silly.” I scoop him up and hold him so I can look into his eyes. 

“He looks sad.” 

I look over. Ari’s eyes are halfway closed, and he’s folded his arms on the table to use as a pillow in the absence of a child in his lap. He’s trying valiantly to pretend he’s not tired. 

I smile at Gabe and walk over to the coffee pot. “He’s just sleepy.” 

“I get sleepy, too, sometimes.” 

“Yes, you do. So do I.” 

“Sometimes I’m happy, too. Sometimes I’m sad...” 

I listen to my son talk to me about his emotions and pour a cup of coffee one-handed, nodding along seriously. If you don’t listen when they talk to you, they won’t want to talk to you when they get older. It’s a thing, I’m pretty sure. Also, his eyes are the same as Ari’s. I swear they are, even though he’s adopted.  _ The same.  _ It’s mesmerizing to look at him, and to hear his little squeaky voice. I smile, because I can’t help it. 

I set down the full mug in front of Ari and lift his chin up to kiss him. 

“Yucky,” Gabe says. 

“Oh, come on,” I chide teasingly.

“It really is gross, guys,” Nora says as she and Teresa join us in the kitchen. 

“‘S not gross,” Ari says into his coffee. 

“We love each other,” I tell the kids. 

“We know.” Nora rolls her eyes. 

Everybody laughs. It feels so perfect. Everything is so wonderful, and warm, and I have my family. If you’d told me at sixteen that I could have something like this, I wouldn’t have believed you. Well, maybe I would’ve… 

And then Gabe throws up. Again. 

The quiet niceness shatters like a pane of glass thrown at a brick wall: immediately and completely and messily. 

Teresa shrieks, Nora groans and protests in loud Spanish, holding her nose, Gabriel starts screaming and crying, Ari joins in on Nora’s complaints, and I force myself to breathe so deeply I feel faint but refreshed enough to not scream along with the little ones. 

Ari takes Gabe upstairs (he didn’t puke on his clothes this time, so he doesn’t need a bath. Seriously, maybe there is a god somewhere...) and I start trying to soothe the girls. 

They sit at the table and keep talking loudly about their brother or how bad it smells or whatever the fuck, and I throw the last of the coffee grounds on the vomit. I rub my temples and wait for it to dry before sweeping it into the dustpan and hunting for air freshener under the sink. The floor’s still sticky, so I have to mop, too.

Ari comes down the stairs a minute later. “Oh, good,” I start. “You’re back.” 

“Two minutes,” he says, and takes the phone out of the room. 

I almost cry. I force myself to breathe again.  _ I can do this… _

“Daddy, will the tooth fairy come tonight?” Teresa asks over the top of her sister’s ramblings. 

“Of course,” I say, cursing myself for forgetting. 

“Is the tooth fairy really real?” 

“Yes, sweetie. She’s real.” 

“Real, real? Because my friend at school told me-”

“Can we go to the drugstore?” Nora asks, even louder than before. “I still need eyeliner.”

“I really don’t know.” 

“Dad, you promised.” 

“Well, if we can’t I’ll run out and get it while you’re asleep.” 

“You always get the wrong kind.” 

“Daddy, you’re not listening!” Teresa whines. 

“Honey, I’m trying.” 

“I’ll just go now,” Nora says, reaching for the dish of keys.  
“Daddy, the tooth fairy isn’t real!” 

“Nora, please don’t go without asking.” 

“I did ask.” 

“No, you didn’t.” 

“The tooth fairy’s made up.” 

“The tooth fairy is very much real! Nora, if you walk out that door, we’re gonna have some words.” 

“Ooh, words, now I’m scared.” 

“No, the tooth fairy’s fake!” 

I hear Gabe start screaming in the bedroom. 

“I’m going,” Nora shouts. 

“It’s getting dark, it’s not safe. You’re staying.” 

“Nora, tell Daddy the tooth fairy isn't real.” 

“The tooth fairy isn’t real, Dad.” 

“Nora! She’s wrong, honey the tooth fairy’s real.” 

“Does it matter? I’m taking the car.” 

“Get back here, young lady.” 

Gabe screams for Ari, even louder. 

“God, make him shut up.” 

“Nora, he’s a toddler-”

Ari bursts through the kitchen door. “We’re going to Grandma’s house!” 

I almost sob with relief. 

“Which Grandma?” Teresa asks when we’re in the car. 

“Grandma Lilly,” Ari tells her. 

“Oh. I wanted Grandma Soledad.” 

“You love them both,” Ari says. 

“Yeah, but I wanted to see Grandpa Sam.” 

“Grandma Lilly and Grandpa Jaime always have cookies,” I pipe up. 

“Ooh, yeah.”

We’re all standing on Lilly and Jaime’s front porch half an hour after Ari made his heroic announcement, although it felt like it took several decades. Lilly opens the door, and I push the kids in the house without greeting. 

“Gabe’s got a stomach bug, Nora needs to go to the drug store, and Teresa lost a tooth and is convinced the tooth fairy isn’t real. We need coffee,” I rattle off. 

“Got it,” Lilly says. 

“Oh, and thank you.” 

She leans out of the house, where Jaime’s already got Gabe on his shoulders and is tickling Teresa while Nora laughs at them, and kisses my cheek. “Any time.” 

“And also, Teresa was dead set on seeing my parents.” 

“I’ll call them.” 

Ari kisses her on the cheek. “You’re the best.” 

She grins and runs a hand through his tangled hair. “I know.” 

  
  


When we get home, we go right up to the bedroom without eating dinner. Not for sex, just to sleep. Glorious. 

“Grandparents are superheroes,” Ari says solemnly as we flop onto the bed. 

“You can say that again,” I mumble, then kiss him. 

“You have paint on your face,” he says into my mouth. I faintly recall smearing it on my cheek this morning. I was at work like that all day. I find that I don’t care. 

We lay there without talking, my arms wrapped tightly around Ari’s waist and his head on my chest. 

ARI

It’s the most peace we’ve had since the last time the kids were away. 

The silence is energizing. I drift off for a little bit, then wake back up and scootch closer to Dante. 

“Ari?” they say finally. 

“Dante?” 

“I love you. So much. A lot.” 

“I love you too.” 

“Can we never adopt another kid?” 

“Yes, let’s never adopt another kid.” 

We smile. I look up at Dante’s face and kiss their chin. 

“Are we old now?” they ask. 

I consider. “Depends on what you mean by old.” 

“It’s 2014. We’re 43. That’s ancient.” 

“No, it’s not. We’re just getting started,” I say. 

“It’s old.” 

“You asked for my opinion.” 

“Well, you’re still never gonna win an argument.” 

“I distinctly remember winning a few years ago. I was right that time.” 

“Yeah, you were right that time.” 

I bring a hand up to my ear and smirk. “What was that? Can you say that again?” 

Dante grumbles a little. “You were right, Ari. You were right about adopting Gabe. Happy?” 

“Yes.”

“Good. Me too.” 

“Good.” 

We lay there in the silence again, soaking it in before the kids come back tomorrow. 

Until my phone rings. 

Dante reaches over me and answers it. “Hi, Lilly. Yep. Oh, okay. Sure. Be there soon.” 

He hits the “End Call” button and I give him a look. 

“The kids won’t go to bed,” he defends. “I wouldn’t have told her yes if we could’ve stayed.” 

“Fine.” 

We end up in the car again. It’s only eight o’clock, but it feels later. Probably because I’ve been awake since early this morning, when Gabe threw up. That feels like eons ago, the stretch of time between then and now blurring in my memory. 

When Dante left, the pediatrician finally took my call, after leaving me on hold for forever. Can they even do that? I suppose I told the secretary it wasn’t an emergency. But still, it’s ridiculous. I talked to the doctor (Gabe’s fine), and then I put Gabe in bed and got going on all the stuff you do when your kid gets sick. I’ve done it before. It just happens to be my least favorite part of being a parent. 

It hurts, because this little guy is hurting and I can’t do anything about it. I’d take all his pain for the rest of his life, but I can’t. I just have to sit there and make him drink water and eat two saltine crackers for an entire meal. He threw up once during the day, and after that he sat around in his footie pajamas with Elmo on them. They’re his favorite. He watched something on TV, but he mostly just hung onto me and cried. 

It hurt. It was tiring. 

I took him to pick up the girls from school. Big mistake. The tears… I don’t want to think about that. Those screams are not for the faint of heart or the sensitive of eardrums. 

I pull into my parents’ driveway. I can see the light in the upper bedroom on, and my dad’s silhouette drifts across the window. Dante takes my hand between theirs and kisses it. I smile at them, and we go into the house. 

We go upstairs right away, to find all three kids in the bedroom with the four parents, looking restless. Even Nora, who’s 17. 

“Knock knock,” I say as Dante and I walk into the room. 

The kids smile. The parents smile, too, and they all file out. Sam shuts the door behind them. 

We climb into the double bed and fit everyone on it. It’s a little tight, but we’re okay. Dante and I sandwich Nora between us, who leans her head on my shoulder. “Hi, Papa,” she mumbles. 

I hoist Teresa into my lap, and her sleepy smile melts my heart. She still sparkles when she’s too tired to function. Dante pulls Gabe into them, and we all shift closer together. 

“Rough day, huh?” Dante whispers, grabbing my hand on top of our cuddle pile. 

We all hum in agreement. 

“Sick Gabey,” I say, kissing him on the forehead. “It threw us all off.”

“Mean boys,” Nora says softly. I kiss her forehead, too. 

“Long meetings,” Dante sighs. 

“I’m okay,” Teresa says. We laugh. 

Gabe falls asleep on Dante first, then Teresa conks out on my chest. Nora leans farther onto my shoulder. Dante puts their free arm around Nora and I, and we get impossibly closer. I stroke my thumb up and down the side of Dante’s hand. 

A tear rolls down Nora’s face. I wipe it off and kiss her head. “My beautiful girl.” 

I can remember thinking that the Quintanas were strange, being a family of kissing and hugging. I wondered how a family could be like that. I thought it was weird.

And I understand now. 

I wouldn’t trade our weird for anything. 

Nora snores at my shoulder. Dante’s eyes drift shut. Gabe’s head lolls to the side and Teresa’s drooling on my shirt.

I give in to the pull of sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> YAY! Ah, that felt good to write.  
> Listen: Dante is dad and Ari is papa. I will die on this hill.  
> I know Gina and Susie didn't *need* to be in this, either, but like. Yes they did. 
> 
> Small note: If you ever have to clean up vomit (and you haven't already seen this online lol), put coffee grounds on it. A LOT of coffee grounds, just scoop it on there. It dries up and you can sweep it. The spot underneath is wet, so you have to wipe that, but like. It's way better. Vomit is my favorite bodily fluid to clean up because the other options... I just can't. Coffee grounds, man. That shit's amazing. 
> 
> I have a series about this coming out... at some point. Some of the stuff in here will make more sense when that comes out. I'm rather busy as of late, and I'm about to get even busier, but I feel like this needed to happen, so we'll see where it goes.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr @[smudgedinkwriting](https://smudged-ink-writing.tumblr.com/) and email me at smudgedinkwriting@gmail.com. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
